The Widow and the Brothel Keep
by WildBubblesRoam
Summary: Lord Baelish and the army of the Vale have helped Sansa Stark and her brother Jon win back their childhood home, Winterfell from Ramsay Bolton. When the dust has settled and Sansa finds herself to be a widow, will her reunion with the brothel keep she thought she knew prove to be as she expects it or will their unresolved history together bleed through to the present?S6E10 Inspired


**_!As with nearly any Petyr/Sansa story, manipulation is at least somewhat present. If this bothers you, you've been warned.!_**

 ** _!Seeing as this does follow the tv-show story lines for the most part, mentions of abuse (ie: Ramsay Bolton) are present. If this bothers you, you've been warned.!_**

 ** _Possible spoilers of what's to come but who can say for sure? Mostly canon has been followed however I did make my own little twists in regards to just how close Petyr and Sansa became during their time at the Eyrie, which leads to the unresolved sexual tension and history they're forced to deal with now. Enjoy!_**

* * *

Her eyes steadied on his form, dark and bulkier than what his bare body naturally provided as the heavy winter furs of his cloak clung around him in thick layers. She scolded herself silently for the thoughts that came when his cheeks lifted and his lips curled into a familiar smile in her direction the moment he spotted her standing beneath an ancient, blossoming tree of the Godswood. Within a matter of long, purposefully careful strides, he was standing in front of her, no more than an arms length away. She watched as he paused, a quick glance around them idly preluding his coy greeting.

"You've come alone." He tried to keep his words flat but she could sense the genuine air of surprise the slight inflation of his smile expressed. She had seen him lie better than anyone, witnessed the way his eyes narrowed or widened depending on what he was trying to insist as truth, and who of course he was speaking with at the time. She had listened to the varying inflections that his voice created, steady in tone as cool and as calm as if a holy man of the Seven himself were standing in his place instead. Yet for as long as she had observed him, watched and learned everything she could from him at the Eyrie, Sansa still felt as though she could never tear apart his truthful moments from his less honest ones. Her own eyes narrowed at the thought of it— the lies he had told, not just in front of her but _to_ _her_. She pressed her eyes closed and forced the still raw feeling from her face. He had seen her like that already, her hurt and her disappointment, not to mention her anger at him for what his lies had done to her.

With her words just as guarded as his, Sansa's reply was dismissive. "I said I would."

His pause was visible, a distinguishable hesitation as he scrutinized her. His eyes scanned expertly over every inch of her face for guidance on what his next move should be. More specifically, what _she_ expected his next move to be. She was closing herself off from him as best she could. It was a bad sign. He toyed with their conversation a moment longer if only to keep any pleasantries between them alive. "I suspect Brienne wasn't happy to hear you didn't want her here with you. Where is she?"

Sansa shrugged, a slight shake to her head as if he had said something stupid or unimportant. "Lady Brienne has sworn herself to me, pledged her sword to me." It was all she offered, as simple of a statement as it was, yet it left him with the lasting effect she had hoped for.

He felt somehow foolish or incompetent in where he assumed his position to be. He assumed he was still someone she could learn from, someone she would listen to and be manipulated by as he saw fit. The apple of his throat bobbed against his skin as he swallowed and reevaluated once more the woman in front of him. She wasn't the girl he had met in Kings Landing, Joffrey's poor little plaything. But she wasn't the sweet, unexpectedly enticing maiden he had discovered during their time at the Eyrie either. She was neither of those people anymore and he found himself uneasy with the apparent stranger now in front of him. "Yes," he agreed gently. "She is very loyal, Lady Brienne. Though she's very lucky to be sworn to such a—,"

"What do you want?" She cut him off before he could spew what would no doubt be some complimentary remark about her appearance or her family or worse yet, about whatever trait or characteristic he thought she might still claim. He might say how kind she was, how noble or how generous she was to take Brienne of Tarth under her charge. She didn't want to hear whatever lies it was he was planning on delivering to her next. She couldn't bare it. "What is it you want, Lord Baelish?" She repeated with even less patience than when she had originally interrupted him.

She had grown tired of their charade, this pleasant conversation between them that was supposed to make it seem as if their history weren't nearly as tainted as it actually was. He could see it in her eyes, hear it in the coldness of her words as they cut through the air sharply between them. She was bitter with him and she had every right to be, but surely they had already addressed those emotions the night he had met with her and Brienne in the small town just outside Night's Watch and the Wall. He had accepted her distaste for him in that moment and despite the burly oversized she-knight being there to witness it, he had all but groveled for her forgiveness, offering to beg for his life if that's what she had wanted. He hadn't, but he had certainly understood her anger with him and apologized for his part in the unfortunate situations she had been placed in because of his decisions. It was over, he thought. He ground his back teeth together in frustration at her question as if she expected him to recoil from his past forwardness with her, their history together, and their _intimacies_. "I thought you knew what I wanted."

There was a bite to his answer that made her feel unsteady on her feet. He was supposed to apologize and all but cower away from her for the way he had discarded her with the Boltons. She expected him to avoid the topic of their previous intimacies for the sake of his own pride or reputation, whatever it was men cared about while scrounging their way to power like he had down thus far. Back at the Eyrie, he had wanted her. She knew it and he knew that she knew it, which led him to take liberties with their often close proximity. Young Robin had been too naive to pay any mind to the way Petyr's kisses lingered against her skin longer than was customary, and soon, against her lips as well. It was intoxicating sometimes, the scent of him so close to her and the feel of him against her. Their first experience of somewhat inappropriate behavior had taken her by surprise and left her a mixture of confused and curious, yet by the time they left the Eyrie months later, she found herself asking others where Lord Baelish was when he wasn't with her, and looking forward to the way he would look at her desirably each time they appeared in each others presence. ' _Until Ramsay',_ Sansa bit at the thought, salty at the memory of the bastard lord. It only hurt so much not because of how cruel Ramsay had been to her, but because of how close she thought Petyr had grown to her. Yet he handed her over all the same.

She scoffed out a sighed laugh, not wanting to believe he would still carry on with the same facade he held with her at the Eyrie. Obviously what she had thought he wanted back then had not been what he actually wanted after all. Sansa wanted to slap him for even attempting to make her believe his lies for one more instant. "You're unbelievable." It was not a compliment. Her arms crossed over her chest to keep herself from striking out at him. "I'm not the same stupid little girl you thought you knew, Petyr. I'm not the same _idiot_ and I don't need rescuing or defending anymore. Certainly not from you."

His eyes narrowed as the corner of his jaw clenched again and released. "You accepted the use of my army, did you not? Your actions are contradicting your words, Lady Stark."

She could barely look at him when he used such a weak argument. "I think we both know that was as much of a political move for you as it was for me."

"Then tell me," Lord Baelish began, that sly, sneakily smooth tone to his voice returning as if he couldn't remember how to speak properly without it. "If you're so concerned with the next _political move,_ " His eyes scanned down the length of her face, hovering ever so slightly on her lips, and continued downwards to her stomach where they stopped. "What are you planning on doing about this?"

Sansa stilled. He hadn't said the words directly, but as his eyes trailed back up to find her own, a confidence in what he was asking spread over his face almost in the form of a smile. She swallowed. "I don't know what you're asking." She lied.

His right brow lifted as if questioning whether or not she was truly going to go down the road of oblivious with him. "Have you forgotten my profession? If a brothel keep can't spot a seeded and sprouted womb at the sight of it, he might as well change occupations while he still has a single coin to his name. The market for women with your _condition_ isn't exactly a wildly profitable one."

Sansa had gone white, even more so than she had already been against the bright fresh snow of the Godswood. Even then, he could pick out the way the hollows of her cheeks flushed pink with the slight fever the seeding had produced inside her. She had been so careful, picking her clothes carefully with extra mind towards covering her stomach. She was still too early to begin showing, at least through clothing, but the fear of someone noticing was too much to risk. Obviously the Septa from her youth hadn't gone into enough detail as to how to conceal a pregnancy much less from a brothel keep of all people. "No one knows," Sansa breathed quietly, a hint of both relief and discretion on her tongue as the weight of her secret seemed to lessen some.

Lord Baelish laughed lightly. "No, of course they wouldn't. I'm assuming you've kept your company to a fair few these days. I wouldn't think your bastard brother and your lady knight, Brienne have any experience on the matter."

"No." Sansa agreed. The silence grew between them as his eyes moved back down to her middle, her hands pulling self-consciously at her cloak until it wrapped more completely over her abdomen. "It's not yours," she stated just above a whisper though she couldn't say whether it was supposed to be strictly an exchange of information or some sort of relieving insight for him.

He did his best to hide his lack of surprise. "No, it wouldn't be." That too, he knew. Though he had behaved foolishly with her at the Eyrie whereas he should have placed more restraint on their intimacies, he hadn't been reckless enough to go _that_ far with the then-maiden. Even so, if she did manage to somehow become inflicted with the burden of a child by his doing, she would surely be showing by now. That had felt like ages ago, their last time together. Though he couldn't make it out completely beneath her heavy winter clothes, he guessed she was no more than a month in term at best and even that was a stretch. With a clearing of his throat, he repeated his earlier question. "What will you do now?"

Sansa quieted. She wanted to say she hadn't thought of it, hadn't contemplated any of her possible actions. This was a gift, a blessing of a hopefully healthy child and heir to her family home now that Rickon had been taken from them so abruptly. She would love the child, she mused, trying to force the idea into her head often enough so that it would someday become truth. Yet even as she mulled over his question, she knew if it sprouted from her innards resembling even the slightly bit of Ramsay Bolton, she couldn't guarantee she wouldn't find herself plotting the murder of her own child once alone with the poor thing. She tried not to think of the possibilities in front of her. She shook her head silently.

Petyr nodded his understanding but felt as though the need to voice his opinion was too strong to ignore. "Would you like my advice? As I've said, I'd had a handful of experiences in regards to these situations." When Sansa shrugged as if to will him to go ahead, he began. "Take a husband, as soon as possible. Wed him and bed him, as soon as possible. Preferably someone of similar stature to your own standing. Someone with control of land, men, and resources. You've won back Winterfell, but if you intend on keeping it, you'll need more than what your bastard brother has to offer to the North. You'll need an alliance, a union through marriage and through an heir."

"And pass off this," Sansa motioned ever so slightly towards her stomach. "As the product of that marriage? It won't work. Ramsay wasn't overly considerate of our privacy. Anyone who was there when I was..." Her words trailed off as she tried to keep the memory of his cruelties away. "Anyone who was there knows I'm not a maiden."

"It's been done before." Petyr encouraged. "Many times. You'd be surprised how few so-called _trueborn_ Lords and Ladies of various noble families and proud lands are no more than bastards themselves."

Sansa shook her head. "It won't work." She turned away, facing the large tree beside her as if its ancient bark would tell her the reassurances she was searching for. "Is it horrible of me to wish for a..." She couldn't finish, couldn't find the strength to say the words. _Miscarriage? Still birth?_ She refused to say it though it had been one of the most prominent thoughts invading her mind since she first discovered she was with child.

His feet stepped the short distance she had inadvertently placed between them as his hands found the delicate curves of her waist. He expected her to flinch, to recoil and pull herself defensively away from his touch after the horrors that Ramsay had surely subjected her to. But she didn't. Instead, her body simply froze for half a second at first contact before returning to the naturally tense state she seemed to be in now a days. He would give anything to see her, feel her become that naive, trusting little dove he had found himself gravitating towards at the Eyrie. _She was never trusting,_ Petyr reminded himself as if spoiling the memories he kept of them, their private times together. Even as close as he had brought himself to her, he knew Joffrey and the Lannisters had seen to squashing out every last trusting, innocent fiber of the poor girl's being. She would never be as she was when he first met her many moons ago. Sweet, gentle, readily practicing every last one of her courtesies with such vigor; it was as if she were truly born to be a high lady of the courts even then.

A soft, almost muffled sound interrupted his private musings as he felt just the smallest of quivers wave through her beneath his hands and heard what he realized was a quiet cry. "Shh," Petyr cooed as best he could. Comfort was never his strong suit and neither was sympathy, but he could mimic enough to at least settle down whatever emotions had suddenly taken over her. "It _will_ work." He was about to add in a gentle 'trust me' before thinking better of it. She would trust no one ever again. She hadn't even trusted her own bastard brother enough to warn him that Lord Baelish and the Vale's soldiers were going to aid them in their fight against the Boltons. Surely if she couldn't find it in herself to trust her own blood, Petyr wouldn't stand a chance. He kept his mouth shut until he was certain he heard the last of her quiet sniffles. She was tougher than she had ever been, better at controlling her emotions than he ever imagined she would be, but the spawn growing inside her was leaving her wrecked both physically and mentally. He could see it in her pale complexion and the slight red rings outlining her eyes when he had first seen her with Lady Brienne in Mole's town.

"I'm the daughter of a supposed mutinous Lord— executed by the former King of the Seven Kingdoms, ex-wife of the murderer of said former King, sister of the deserting Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, and soiled widow of one of the most vile men I've ever met. This _won't_ work if I'm not suitable to marry. Who would have me?" She felt his body step closer towards her as his hands became arms, pulling her against him in an embrace that felt warm and familiar. When she had reunited with Jon and first felt him pull her against him, she could recall a similar familiarity in the sense of him, but the warmth she felt with Petyr was curiously different.

He wanted to hold her against him for hours, days even, however long she would let him. As she turned and brought her front against his, her arms wrapping comfortably around his waist, she seemed to fit so perfectly in his arms; it seemed a shame to pull her away from him, but he did. He had been waiting for those exact words to leave her lips. The moment he discovered her _condition_ , he knew it would be his way back into her life, into her heart. Forgiveness wasn't going to be easy, but if she could just see that he _was_ sorry, that he _needed_ to help her. "You need a man with land, with men, and coin." He paused as if to emphasize exactly what he had to offer her before presenting his plan properly. "I happen to have control over the Vale and all lands inclusive of it. As you've seen just recently, I have command over an army strong enough to defeat even the Bolton forces. He didn't bother with the last offer. Anyone who knew Littlefinger knew of his talents with coin. The gold he gained from his brothels alone could sustain them if he so wished it. His coin could help rebuild and maintain Winterfell as they declared their hold over the North. "You asked me what it was I wanted, Sansa."

Her face seemed so close to his as they stood in a looser embrace, his hands resting almost naturally at her shoulders as hers stayed at the sides of his waist. It wasn't until he drew the fingers of his right hand behind her head, that he felt her shift her palms to the planes of his chest. His fingers lingered sweetly over the supple skin of her neck before entwining loosely in her long auburn hair. He would be lying if he claimed to have not been hoping to taste her again when he first received the discreet scroll, stating she wished to meet him in the Godswood. Since their separation with the assistance of the Boltons, he had yearned for her. Her sharp quips as she learned more and more of his strengths filled him with an unfamiliar sense of pride but their nights together were so much more.

He breathed out a slightly staggered breath as he remember their last night together at the Eyrie. She had been beautiful, her hair died a deep black to conceal her trademark Tully red which he adored, but the black seemed to suit her almost ironically, he thought. He remembered how she had grown bolder with the black hair as if feeling a certain freedom that came with shedding her former life as Sansa Stark in favor of a safer traveling identity. It had nearly broken him that night to lie beside her in his feather bed, his fingers tracing strategically placed circles and swirls over the most sensitive bits of her. He knew then that he couldn't have her, not in the way he wanted, but the way she spoke with him, the way her body moved, pulling herself closer to his fingers like they had been her very lifeline in those moments; it nearly broke him.

 _'Petyr,' she had called out softly, her eyes pressed closed tightly as if concentrating on the feeling of his fingertips and nothing else. Her hips had lifted off the surface of the feather bed then, rising to follow the invisible trail he had been forming on the heated flesh just above her pubic bone, far down below her naval. They had been pushing it, he knew as much. He knew the first time their kisses became lengthened and deepened in both time and intensity that they were going beyond the limits he had sworn himself to abide by. But they hadn't stopped, not by a long shot, and so as their last night together ticked away with every passing minute, he felt himself slowly ease into the idea of keeping her for himself. His arrangements with the Boltons had already been finalized, he knew that, but the sweet urgency that her soft, wanton little breaths and sighs released each time his hand moved further down the length of her body, the greedier he became. That night had felt like a horrid mistake come morning, but as much as he willed himself to regret it, he couldn't bring forth the required feeling of disapproval at their intimacy when the taste of her sweet-salty gifts still lingered heavily over his lips._

She had been a maiden then. Not meant ' _for him_ ', as he had to so often remind himself, but now... His fingers felt at home in the waves of her hair, as if they had finally gained permission to fulfill every last unspeakable act they had envisioned of each other in those nights at the Eyrie. His charm was perhaps one of his strongest traits, trailing only just barely behind his keen wit and sharp sense of maneuvering, in every aspect of the word. He waited to feel the movement of her face shifting closer towards his before closing the short gap between them himself. The feel of her lips against his, the taste that could only be described as _her_ , it was all the same, just as he had remembered, if not for the burst of passion he felt behind her kiss. If she was unsure of her actions, she showed no signs, but the anger, he could feel the anger still buried deep within. It was a complicated thing, a complex mixture of emotions that he hoped to someday soothe into nothingness, a scar on their soon-to-be life together. But beneath the anger and the complexity of it all, he swore he could feel the fire for him still burning within her.

Her hands smoothed up his chest and cupped at his cheeks as their bodies entwined themselves deeper around each other. The mint on his breath was almost intoxicating. It engulfed her senses, the scent of him beneath his thick winter clothes, the feel of his tongue against hers, and as the seconds grew elongated and transformed into minutes, soon the firmness of the tree that had been beside them was felt against her back through her clothes as his hands traced the curves of her hips and pulled at the fastens of her garments. She let out a breath she hadn't realized she had been holding when their kiss finally broke, his lips dropping down to the side of her neck with an eagerness she found exciting in him. He was gentle, so much gentler than she had grown used to with Ramsay. It was almost confusing to feel the sweetness of a kiss without some sort of pain to follow or prelude the action.

Petyr lifted his head away from her neck to gauge the expression on her face, the tips of his fingers just barely pushing past her small clothes as his hand dug its way beneath her heavy clothes. His eyes fixed on hers as his hand stilled carefully. "Are you sore?" He swallowed and she knew he must have been contemplating exactly what Ramsay had put her through and whether or not she was still healing from any of his _games_. "This can wait if—,"

His words became lost between them as her mouth closed over his again, her hips shifting closer to his hand with the solidity of her muted answer. She melted against the sturdy, ancient tree as Petyr's fingers moved into her. At the Eyrie, on their final night together, his digits inside her had felt so filling, nearly too full as his mouth did unspeakable things, marvelous things, but now, she needed more. More of him, more of this, more of what she knew he had wanted but never fully given in to before tonight. Sansa pulled her lips away from his and hissed in a breath as he expertly found the sweetest spot within her and stroked it in exactly the way she remembered. Her hips shifted again, trying to get him to reach more of her. She needed **more**. "Petyr," she murmured almost breathlessly just above his ear when his kisses reached for her neck once more. She felt herself tighten around his orchestrations, the heat of his mouth warming her against the cold air of the Godswood.

He mumbled something against her throat as he switched sides, bringing his lips away from the reddened skin of her neck's left side to christen the right with the same hungry affection. It took a second whispered set of words against her flesh for her to realize what he had said between kisses and heavy breaths. _'Say it again,'_ he had pleaded, almost begging in tone. Her mind was such a flood with the feelings of her body against his and the movements of his fingers deep inside her that she had to put effort into tracing back the last few moments for what she had said in their aroused states. _'Petyr,'_ she recalled, calling it again to him softly as if he needed to hear her to truly believe what was happening.

A groan pressed against her neck just as he reached the crook of her collarbone, the sensitive spot proving difficult to reach without tearing the collar of her shirt away from the rest of her clothing. He was frustrated by the limits presented to them, but it was too cold to strip down to small-clothes, even without winter being anywhere near its peak. It would have to do, for now. It was bad enough he had already reddened her neck with the persistence of his lips against her bare skin, not to mention the stubbly feel of the small pointed facial hair just above his chin. They could manage to cover the small red flushes she would possibly wear for the remainder of the evening, but they couldn't exactly sneak themselves into Winterfell's castle and stow themselves away together properly in a fire-lit room without someone noticing. Winterfell wasn't as overly populated as Kings Landing might have been with spies and little spiders around every corner, but it certainly wasn't as secluded and private as the Eyrie had proved to be for them.

As unconventional as it was, this was their best and possibly only option for the time being, and so they took it. Careful to keep her heavy fur cloak wrapped around her for warmth, Petyr withdrew his fingers from her entrance and replaced them with something **more**. The heat of her engulfed him so fully as he thrust himself inside her that he had to stifle the moan that escaped him, pushing himself closer to her as the tree gave them added support. He knew every depth of a woman, had taught countless whores under his employment exactly how to get the most out of their clients, but as he drew her right leg up to the notch of his hip and explored every inch she had to offer, rhythmic and absolutely sensual in his steady strokes, he found himself craving to know more of her as if she held some secret no other woman could possibly possess, maiden or otherwise.

In the end, it was the quick pulses, the tightening and almost milking sensation of her core exploding around his thickness that sent him into his own blinding release, so much so that when the rush overtook them and slowly subsided, trickling out of them in a series of smaller, fainter pulses, their legs buckled beneath their exhausted bodies. Their breathy laughter filled the air of the Godswood as they righted their clothes for fear of the sharp cold snow against their bare skin where it was present. Staring up at the trees above them and the hazy, winter sky beyond, Sansa felt his arm wrap around her middle as her hand and head rested against his torso.

They remained together until the snow beneath them and the air around them grew too cold to bear and the sky's light shifted to that of fresh moon and stars. It wasn't until they reached just beyond the edge of the Godswood entrance that Petyr asked, "Does that mean your answer is yes?" Ever the planner, he was. Surely his mind was already working at what their union could possibly mean for him, for her, for them.

Sansa smirked. "That depends. Was that your idea of a proper proposal?" She teased, quietening her voice as they exited the Godswood and made their way back to the castle. It was still early evening but their absence would be noted more easily the longer they stayed away.

They came up to the point in their path where their directions were meant to diverge and stilled, uncertain of how far their liberties could be taken within the castle's occupied walls. They most certainly weren't alone, but just how closely were any eyes that might have been glancing in their direction? Could they spare one last kiss without raising suspicions? An embrace? They both knew the answer without even questioning it. Keeping the distance between them, Petyr gave a respectful tilt of his head towards her and spoke curtly. "I'll speak to your brother on the matter in the morning, Lady Stark. Have a good evening."

Sansa mimicked his straight face and returned his nod all the same. "Thank you, Lord Baelish. You as well."

* * *

 _ **This was only meant to be a means to cope with the time left before we get to see what the season finale will finally give us on Sunday. It may stay as a little one-shot. It may not. I haven't decided yet seeing as I never actually intended on writing any of this down in the first place. It had been my own little head canon considering how the tv-show has been going, but I felt the urge to jot it all down last night and this was the result. So I suppose we'll see where it goes from here if this isn't the end. Either way, thanks for reading and enjoy the season finale!**_


End file.
